Why I Am Not A Painter
A l l C o n t e n t ©2005-2021 E m i l i e H a n s o n e-mail
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Minneapolis, MN links & archives
a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry
on the internet
in the hopes of creating something better
This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.
You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.
Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
I am aware that that can be unsettling
but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
there is never a clear picture of reality
untitled 16 beginning "you broke your hand"
you broke your hand and it hurt me: the story and my
imagination. talking to you is like talking to every film
character who has ever been more than two dimensional.
talking to you is like talking to every book i have
ever loved. talking to you is like talking to the dead.
you broke your hand and didn't realize it. my bones
are in tact and have never known plaster. my bones imagine
that they would cry if they met Fracture. my bones know
in their bones that they would be immediately aware,
if they were broken. my bones feel they should have known your bones.
you broke your hand and i kept forgetting: it made me feel
like the worst friend. being an individual, thinking
of myself above you. it's wrong to think that
loving someone means putting their needs ahead of yours.
it's this oxygen mask. we both put on our own.
you broke your hand and that's all: your hand is broken.
you take care, people write on your body, time passes,
your hand is a hand again. it's sick, i've always wanted
to be broken like this -- in public. exterior injuries
elicit sympathy and conversation. covered eyes and "oh fuck" do not.
you broke your hand and i want to know what it feels like.
i want to compare our thresholds for pain. i want to know how it rides
inside your body. is everything different? i think everything
must be different. the way our synapses fire, our sexual organs,
our unshared histories. how is your heart
you broke your heart and i don't know about it. i only know
it must be true. i make the assumption
that you are human, that when we both breathe it is
conversation. that if i reserve these words, eventually
you will say something, and not all of it lies
Labels: you broke your hand
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Links
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elimae.
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